From Russia With Feeling
by KarkatWillNotMarryYou
Summary: That's not the point though. What is the point is that now, after your journey in assorted vehicles and other travelly doohickies, you're home. And only a little bit traumatised. - [[set after "fly", because that episode was fucked up and fucked me up. the duo attempt to overcome their recent, harsher experimentation. contains a lot of cuddling. probably.]]
1. Chapter 1

**things u should know about this fanfiction**

**1. it is in second person. that is, like first person but with a you instead of an i. this is because i read too much homestuck.**

**2. i wrote this for tumblr user thelittlemermage because they wanted me to O: it was always an idea they just inspired me i guess so mage this is for u**

**sorry if this is confusing. :X second person generally is a bitch if you're not used to it**

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><p>You'd done it.<p>

You'd actually done it.

The chance that you would have actually gotten out alive was fairly small, but you'd actually succeeded. No wonder you were so proficient that time you got stuck in the jungle. Not that it didn't take a hell of a long time, of course. It was Russia. And you had to be pretty smart in your methods of travel. One freaked out air hostess and the both of you were literally dead. But after (what, three) years of being chained up and poked and prodded and god knows what else, you were quite content with cuddling up in the overhead luggage holder for a few hours. You just went to sleep. And _boy_, did you sleep.

Once safely back in California, it was just a case of, however possible, hitching rides in various vehicles. People generally didn't notice when you climbed into their cars (being small as you were), and for the most part you were ignored. Then it was just a short walk and hey presto. You were back at the lab in a surprisingly short space of time, considering. And, amazingly enough, you didn't feel too bad. By now, it's become somewhat apparent that whatever genetic experimenting you underwent has made you, to a certain degree, impervious to damage. You're still affected, of course, but not as much as you should be. Or maybe you're just not paying attention to your own injuries? You're preoccupied. And you do that a lot anyway.

Anyway, point is, you're not too banged up, in the great scheme of things.

You can't say the same for your associate, unfortunately. However much you've been injured, physically, emotionally, or otherwise, you can honestly say that it doesn't hold a candle to how Brain probably feels. But then again, you're not sure why anyone would want to hold a candle to him, or, indeed, his feelings. Burn injuries are the last thing he needs right now. In fact, you both actually have those, thinking about it, so he certainly doesn't need any more!

Poit.

During your flight, he didn't really speak. That you know of, anyway. You were asleep for most of it, remember. Anyway, he just curled up against some random woman's suitcase and stayed completely quiet. This worries you. He's not really a quiet person; in fact, the majority of your relationship (whatever relationship you have) seems to be him talking. And then you talk! And then he hits you with a pencil. Oh, the good old days. (Narf.)

You'd give anything to have him hit you with a pencil now.

. . . . .

That's not the point though. What is the point (poit! Haha.) is that now, after your journey in assorted vehicles and other travelly doohickies, you're home. And only a little bit traumatised. But that's okay! You can look after yourself. You suppose you always were the carer in your relationship.

(Whatever relationship you have.)

You've had Brain tucked under your arm for the latter parts of your journey. (Not literally. He's not that short.) He'd been a bit wobbly throughout all of it, but by the state border he didn't look like he could even stand for much longer. So you kind of hooked an arm around him and half dragged half carried half supported (wait) him from then to here. You'd be perfectly willing to carry him full stop! It wouldn't be the first time. You just thought you might save him some dignity. That and he might well have slapped you.

If he, well. Could.

Well, he probably physically could, you're just not sure he would have thought of that. He barely responded to you at all throughout your journey, to the point where you vaguely wonder if he's seeing you at all.

But again, that's okay! He'll be back to normal soon. You're just going to look out for him until then.

Everything will be back to normal soon.

You hope.

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><p><strong>did that or did that not suck pls let me know<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**this chapter is longer than the first one**

**i did want to write more but i had to end it sometime lmao**

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><p>The first thing you did when you got back to the lab was, well. Sleep some more.<p>

Maybe that sounds stupid, but it's not like you got much sleep back in Russia. You didn't go for very long periods of time without being prodded with something. Again, you're lucky you're so unsusceptible to damage. You could have suffered a lot, lot worse.

But then again, you guess, relatively, you didn't really get the painful end of experimentation.

When you get there, you give Brain a little nudge and tell him in the friendliest tone you can manage that look, you're home now. He doesn't respond to that either, so you take this as your cue to drag him inside with the full intent of getting him into bed.

(No, not like that. Not really the time.)

Luckily, you share a bed, so after you eventually get back to your cage you can sort of just flop over. You stay flopped for a good ten minutes until you snap yourself out of your trance just enough to sit yourself up and see if Brain's okay because he's still not talking to you.

He's sat on the corner of your bed, just sort of staring into space. You think. You're not entirely sure where he's looking, because you're looking at him from the back, but you assume he's staring into space because the TV isn't on, so you reach out and sort of tug him over to the pillow.

"Aren't you, um. Going to sleep?"

He doesn't respond, but he does move to get in to said bed, pulling the blankets up over himself with the same eerie wordlessness he was previously exhibiting.

Goodnight, then.

You say this to him, pulling the covers up over yourself too, and he still doesn't respond, so you leave it. You cuddle up to him, though, and usually, you don't do that. Or didn't? Your memories of here are kind of fuzzy, especially now, but you don't remember cuddling up to him much. It was _platonic_ bed sharing. Duh.

_Duh._

. . . . .

So you're awake now, and nursing a killer headache, but you remind yourself that you have shit to do, god damn it, so you go and drink some water and try to forget your own troubles because, like you've mentioned, Brain probably feels a billion times wo

he's not in bed oh god fucking hell

It takes a moment of frantically looking around before you spot him hidden next to a box (you try to remember what said box is for and fail miserably) sketching something. You potter over to him and cross your arms. You're not angry with him, but you're starting to feel a little uncomfortable with your arms hanging there doing nothing and this is the easiest way to rest them.

You take a moment to collect your words. "...Are you feeling any better?"

It feels like about three hours before he responds.

"I'm fine."

He speaks. Hallefuckinglujah.

"Um. I wouldn't call you _fine_, considering. But as long as you're feeling at least a titchy bit better? You weren't really talking much yesterday-"

You trail off and squeak a quiet "troz" under your breath as he swivels to look at you. He doesn't look particularly healthy. Or fine. But neither of you do, and you suppose it's only to be expected. He has a nasty wound of some sort behind his ear (a burn, maybe?) and you privately decide to look at it later.

"I said I'm fine. Could you go and hover somewhere else? I'm working on something."

Well, you know what _something_ is, and the way he says it is completely devoid of the emotion he would usually put into it, he just sounds tired, so you don't go hover somewhere else. You move closer and give his arm a tug.

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Brain. Why don't we go and sit down?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm already sat down."

Sassy as ever.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Please, just go back to bed. You don't have to sleep." How long did he even sleep for? You don't know. Time is not a thing any more.

He doesn't reply, again, and continues scribbling whatever he's scribbling and mumbling about integers.

Okay, fuck it. Dignity aside, you're going to get him in that bed whatever it takes, so you bend down slightly and just full bodied pick him up. You're not fucking around.

He actually _squeals_.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I was going to ask you the same question."

"I was being _productive_."

"You were being crazy!" Twelve hours ago he was chained to a fucking _gyroscope_. Or something that looked like a gyroscope. You want to tell him this but you can't think of a nice way to phrase it.

"I was trying to accomplish something." Wriggle wriggle. "Put me _down_."

You comply by very gently lowering him onto your bed. And you do mean that.

Brain shuffles around to face you and folds his arms. "Why are you insisting on this?"

"Well, you don't look all that well. So I thought maybe you should sit down for a while. The world can wait." You attempt to smile reassuringly and decide not to mention the fact he's used this line himself before. Because of a _date with a girl_ no less so no, he can fucking sleep.

"Can it."

"Well, whatever plan you were drawing up is bound to work just as well next week, isn't it? Rome wasn't built in a day." You pause. "But maybe that's because the Italians were napping all the time." You punctuate this thought with a quiet "Narf", considering this point with around five seconds of complete concentration.

"...I think you just argued against your own point. How impressive."

"Oh." You're pulled out of your thoughts rather harshly. "Wait, what point would that be?"

"Never mind." He moves to pull himself off the bed, but you take hold of his shoulders and push him back down. "Nope. You stay there, mister!"

"Or what." He doesn't have eyebrows, and he's still raising them. How. "I get a time out?"

You decide not to bring up that time his parents came over.

"Well, probably, yes." You attempt to sound as angry or vaguely parental as you possibly can. "But only because I can't think of anything else right now! Poit."

"Oh, right. Well, excuse my behaviour. I'll just sit in this corner and consider the error of my ways." And with that, he shuffles over to the pillow end of the bed and sits on the corner, crossing his arms and sitting in the most sarcastic way possible. Apparently, sarcastic sitting is a thing. And he is _damn_ good at it.

Speaking of sarcasm, his voice is _dripping_ with it. It couldn't be more saturated, you think, if. If it was a salad. One of those ones you get at fancy restaurants and they just drown them in ranch dressing. And you're like, waiter, what is this. And the waiter's like, is there a problem? And you're like, my salad is drowning in ranch dressing, is this really necessary? And the waiter's like, so was your mother last night!

...What point were you trying to make with this? You forget.

Zort.

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><p><strong>disclaimer: my family is italian i am allowed to make that joke<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**there's so much h/c in this chapter it's like 90% fluff it's great  
><strong>

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><p>So you must have sat there for a good half hour staring at him sat in the corner before you lean over and prod his shoulder.<p>

"Brain."

He doesn't respond. You start to marvel at his resilience. Which would be so much more impressive if he wasn't acting like such a child.

"Please say something."

You lean back, biting at your nails in a vague nervous habit-y sort of way, and eventually he responds. "Oh, my apologies. It's just I'm not allowed to talk during time out."

You're about to say something when you notice his shoulders shaking. It looks and sounds like he's laughing, albeit still sarcastically, so you laugh too, and it's great for about fourty five seconds before he buries his face in his hands and oh shit.

You're not sure when he stopped laughing and started crying, because he was definitely laughing a minute ago (you think?) and you're panicking because while you've seen him cry before, it was only a few tears. You're the hysterical sobbing one out of the two of you. Brain just sort of leaks for a while before getting on with things.

He's not making any sound again, and that worries you. He's sobbing, but it's totally silent, and after a moment of pondering this (You're starting to miss that word) you wrap your arms around him and pull him close to your chest, moving your hand up and down his back in some odd comforting sort of gesture.

You tried.

"Oh, no, Brain, please don't cry. It's alright, I promise you." Fuck, quickly, think. "It's. Um. You're safe! I'm here, and, um. Nobody's going to hurt you. They might stick you in a maze for half an hour but that doesn't really _hurt_, does it? Haha. Narf."

Why is he crying this is wrong you're the emotional one that needs guiding around all the time oh god. And while you know in your heart that that's not true (not only are you totally independent, but, you know. The jungle incident.) it's just easier to act like it is because, well. It makes things easier.

Or it just makes him feel better. You're not sure.

You think he's stopped now, but you don't stop your awkward patting until a little while later, and you still haven't let go of him yet. "...Are you alright?" You ask, somewhat hesitantly, and eventually he gives a small nod but makes no attempt to move. And that's okay, because you don't move either. You just sort of sit there and admittedly you're kind of relishing the contact because you don't have a huggy relationship.

Whatever relationship you have.

And when you do finally pull away, you reach out and very gently wipe his face dry with your hand, which would be easier if he wasn't pointedly looking away from you, but that's okay, you understand. You take the blanket from your bed and wrap a small section around his shoulders (you're sitting on it, so you can't pull the whole thing) and give him the most reassuring smile you can manage.

He doesn't look at you.

"What do we do now."

You have to think for a moment here, because usually you ask him what you need to do. And you can't give him any even mildly humorous suggestions, no matter how funfunsillywilly they might be. (You _are_ joking most of the time. Half the things you say aren't even possible.)

"Well, I don't know. What do we usually do when we're not taking over the world?"

He cuts over your inevitable "poit" noise.

"Well. Sleep, I suppose. And." He shivers, before turning to you. "Do you think they've forgotten about us?"

Blink blink. "Who, Brain."

"The. The scientists. We have been missing for a...for an _inordinately_ long time, and. Well. There's a possibility they might have forgotten we exist."

That is a possibility, so you smile and nod. "I don't see what this has to do with now, though."

"Well, that's the other thing we do. Walk through stupid mazes. And. And get electrocuted." He wraps his arms around himself. "...And burnt with...various objects." He continues, in a smaller voice. "And get seperated. And forcibly chained up. And."

You hug him again because he's panicking and he needs to shut up.

"Right. Yes. Thank you, my friend." He mumbles into your shoulder. "I think I might have gotten a little carried away there."

"It's alright, Brain." A pause. "...As opposed to, erm. Unforcibly tied up? Zort."

"In your case, maybe." He mumbles under his breath, and you pretend you don't hear him. His condition, you think, is probably an acceptable excuse for you not to bring up his jabs against your personal enjoyments. It's not _your_ fault that you didn't actually mind being in Hell too much.

He's less distressed when you pull away this time, and you sit and think for a moment. "I suppose we could always just think up ideas." You suggest, after a while. "And, you know, not act on them yet. I mean, like I said, we can wait."

"Well, thank you for the suggestion." A sigh. "I just don't feel very inspired at the moment."

"Maybe you should sleep more?" You suggest.

"I..." He looks like he's about to argue with you, but decides against it. "Alright, yes. And then I'm sure tomorrow we can get started on another plan, yes?"

"Of course." You reassure, yet you severely doubt this.


End file.
